Conspiracy on Callisto
By JAMES MacCREIGH
Revolt was flaring on Callisto, and Peter Duane
held the secret that would make the uprising a
success or failure. Yet he could make no move,
could favor no side—his memory was gone—he
didn't know for whom he fought.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Duane's hand flicked to his waist and hung there, poised. His dis-gunremained undrawn.
The tall, white-haired man—Stevens—smiled.
"You're right, Duane," he said. "I could blast you, too. Nobody wouldwin that way, so let's leave the guns where they are."
The muscles twitched in Peter Duane's cheeks, but his voice, when itcame, was controlled. "Don't think we're going to let this go," hesaid. "We'll take it up with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether you cancut me out!"
The white-haired man's smile faded. He stepped forward, one handbracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath,holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship's corridor.
He said, "Duane, Andrias is your boss, not mine. I'm a free lance; Iwork for myself. When we land on Callisto tonight I'll be with you whenyou turn our—shall I say, our cargo?—over to him. And I'll collectmy fair share of the proceeds. That's as far as it goes. I take noorders from him."
A heavy-set man in blue appeared at the end of the connecting corridor.He was moving fast, but stopped short when he saw the two men.
"Hey!" he said. "Change of course—get to your cabins." He seemed aboutto walk up to them, then reconsidered and hurried off. Neither man paidany attention.
Duane said, "Do I have to kill you?" It was only a question as he askedit, without threatening.
A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling aone-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.
"Not at all," he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headedopponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisinglybelligerent than Duane, standing there. "Not at all," he repeated."Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.Leave Andrias out of our private argument."
"Damn you!" Duane flared. "I was promised fifty thousand. I need thatmoney. Do you think—"
"Forget what I think," Stevens said, his voice clipped and angry. "Idon't care about fairness, Duane, except to myself. I've done all thework on this—I've supplied the goods. My price is set, a hundredthousand Earth dollars. What Andrias promised you is no concern ofmine. The fact is that, after I've taken my share, there's only tenthousand left. That's all you get!"
Duane stared at him a long second, then nodded abruptly. "I was rightthe first time," he said. "I'll have to kill you!"
Already his hand was streaking toward the grip of his dis-gun, touchingit, drawing it forth. But the white-haired man was faster. His armsswept up and pinioned Duane, holding him impotent.
"Don't be a fool," he grated. "Duane—"
The P.A. speaker rattled, blared something unintelligible. Neither manheard it. Duane lunged forward into the taller man's grip, sliding downto the floor. The white-haired man grappled furiously to keep his holdon Peter's gun arm, but Peter was slipping away. Belatedly, Stevenswent for his own gun.
He was too late. Duane's was out and leveled at him.
"Now will you listen to